No Turning Back
by Prisoner No. 4257
Summary: When Harry is captured by Voldemort, he is injected with an experimental potion. Will Harry ever make it home? More importantly, will he recognize it when he does? R&R please.


_Whup whup whup whup whup…_

The steady rhythm of his shoes hitting the wet sidewalk was doing nothing to calm his pounding heart. He had to get out of here. He had to get away. _Now_.

_Whup whup whup whup whup…_

The city streets were deserted and rain was pouring down, plastering his midnight black hair to his skull. Water trickled down his face in tiny rivulets. Just how long had he been running now? Was he far enough away? No. He was never safe. He had to keep moving. The boy pushed his body even harder, fear and adrenaline forcing his footfalls to an even faster pace.

_Whup-whup-whup-whup-whup…_

His lungs were burning fiercely, his breath coming in wild gasps that did little to ease their pain. But he couldn't stop. If they caught him, he would die. No question.

_Whup-whup-whup- _

Suddenly he was falling, his ankle burning with pain. The boy had a fleeting look at the path ahead before he fell heavily, skinning his palms as they automatically stretched out in an attempt to catch himself. His glasses skittered away. Groaning as he rolled off of his stomach, the boy pulled his hands close to his face so he could assess the damage. Blood was beginning to show through the damaged skin, seeping out from under the grit that had imbedded itself in his hands. The boy awkwardly wiped his palms on his shirt, wincing as he was reminded of the recent wound on his upper arm. It had already closed up, but the damage was done.

It was Voldemort's version of an injection. Who needs syringes his way was more painful and got the job done just as quickly? The boy shuddered. Something strange was inside of him, pumping through his veins, changing him in ways he didn't wish to change. Voldemort had been unusually vague in his gloating about the poison-_ rather rude of him_, the boy thought grumpily- but he had been clear on one thing: after the changes were complete, the boy would pose no threat to the Dark Lord.

The rain began to fall harder, and lightning streaked through the sky. Thunder boomed loudly, following quickly on the heels of the lightning. The boy's eyes widened as he suddenly remembered where he was. What on earth was he _doing_! He didn't have time to be laying there! With a growl of frustration at his lacking concentration, the boy tried to push himself up off the cold ground. His muscles shrieked in protest. They hadn't been used this heavily in a long time, and his recent encounters with the Crutiatus curse had done nothing to help the situation.

The dark-haired boy cursed violently. He couldn't afford to be wasting time just sitting here like a ninny! The boy made a desperate attempt to stand. Half-way through, his injured ankle gave out, and he fell to his knees. The boy cursed again, dismayed, and stared at the grimy sidewalk beneath him, at a loss. What should he do now? What _could_ he do?

Well, first off, he sure as hell wouldn't just sit there and let them find him. He'd get off the sidewalk at the very least, and make himself less conspicuous. Decided on a course of action, he dragged himself painfully towards an alley and managed to prop himself up against the wall, panting in exertion. There. At least he was out of sight, for now.

Exhausted, the boy let his head fall forward to loll against his chest. He just needed a rest, really. He'd be able to continue on… just after he… caught his… breath…

The boy's eyes drifted closed, and his shoulders slumped as he fell into the comforting embrace of unconsciousness.

--/--

Miles away, Harry Potter's name slowly faded from the Order of the Phoenix's status sheets that detailed the conditions of their members. Arthur Weasley, assigned sentry to the sheets this week, hurriedly firecalled Dumbledore.

The old wizard rushed over. "You've discovered something about Harry?" he asked urgently.

Arthur was frantic. "Headmaster! H-His name! It's disappearing!" As he spoke, he gesticulated wildly at the paper, as though that alone would help Dumbledore to understand the problem.

The status sheets were set up in a way similar to the Weasley clock. There were different conditions such as 'Injured' or 'Mortal peril'. There was even a setting for 'Death'. Several members of the Order had this status displayed next to their name, casualties in Voldemort's recent attack. It was unheard of for a name to simply disappear.

Dumbledore moved swiftly and sounded the alarms to gather the Order of the Phoenix. As the alarms blared, the Order descended into chaos.

Just what had happened to Harry Potter?

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A/N:_ Worth continuing? Please tell me what you think! …And please no flames. It's my first story. _


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